


From the Ground

by Greensilver (Trelkez)



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trelkez/pseuds/Greensilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turning the goose back into a rat seems simple, on the whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Ground

Turning the goose back into a rat seems simple, on the whole. Merlin pictures the original rat in his head, focuses on the goose, and mutters the same words as before, the exact same words. The goose sort of shudders and shrinks, and at the end of it, Merlin has a rat with a beak, wings, and bird feet.

Fine, yes: not so simple.

He pictures the original rat again, the beak-free one, and repeats the spell. The rat shakes a little, but that's all, so Merlin tries a different approach: this time, he pictures the rat with its monstrous bird feet. He imagines the bird feet going away, and the rat feet coming back.

It works. Works on the beak, too, so now he just has a rat with wings -- which, if it weren't altogether horrific, would be funny: he can only imagine how Arthur's peevish attitude toward rats would manifest itself when faced with _flying_ rats.

Arthur is still too wary of Merlin's magic to find a flying rat particularly amusing; Merlin isn't even slightly tempted. He's _not_.

He focuses on the wings, and starts muttering the words of the spell--

And the door swings open, and Arthur steps through; and Merlin's concentration is fractured by a jolt of panic at the thought of Arthur catching him at this. That jolt shoots down his spine and sizzles back up again, making all the muscles in his back tense up in a strange, unfamiliar configuration.

"Merlin," Arthur says, horrified or incredulous or both. "What have you _done?_"

That's more than the situation merits, really -- it's just a _rat_, and he hadn't _meant _it, only he was a little distracted trying to sort Arthur's mess of a bed and rat infestation at the same time, and then a stray bit of goose down tickled his nose, and he slightly mangled the spell he'd been trying for, and that mangling turned out to be _another _spell, and--

In the near-total silence, Merlin hears the soft metal-on-metal scrape of a key turning. Arthur has locked the door.

"I can explain," Merlin says, and stands, turning to face Arthur.

Something is off, something to do with his balance; he nearly falls over, and is rather unexpectedly stopped with a hand on his shoulder. Arthur is staring at him -- no, staring _over _him -- eyes wide with something that isn't amusement.

"Don't explain, just _undo _it, before someone tries to come in." Arthur gives Merlin a slight shake, which really doesn't help with his balance any. "_Now_, Merlin."

Which he's really all too happy to do, only -- only, in his panic over Arthur, Merlin has lost track of the rat.

Wait, no: _there_, scurrying toward Arthur's bed. Scurrying, and wingless.

Then what--

Arthur lets go of his shoulder, and Merlin sways back, nearly overbalancing again. He catches himself just short of toppling, spreading his arms for balance -- no, not his arms, but--

Oh.

Arthur takes a quick step away from Merlin. The corners of his mouth turn up and down again, caught between a smirk and a scowl.

Merlin cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse. His not-arms helpfully spread out, curling forward, and he's smacked with a broad span of large white feathers.

_His _feathers, because he's just spelled himself a pair of wings.

"Right," he says, willing himself not to panic. "Right. I'll just--" He closes his eyes and recites the spell. Belatedly, he remembers to picture the wings disappearing; he tries the spell again, and when he can still feel the strange counterbalance of wings at his back, tries a third time.

Nothing.

"You really do the stupidest things," Arthur says, his voice closer now, and slightly to the left.

Merlin ignores him, reciting the spell again.

"The most idiotic, _dangerous_\--"

And again.

"It's a wonder you don't accidentally turn your bed into a lake and drown in it, with all the wit and intelligence you possess."

Oh,_ that_ is going to haunt him. "Thanks, because that's not going to keep me awake at night or anything--"

"Shut up and do your spell."

Again. Again. Again.

There's a slight brush across the feathers at his back, the smallest of cautious, curious touches; the sensation is strange -- good -- and Merlin makes a sharp, startled noise. When he opens his eyes, Arthur is rapidly backing away, face flushed, eyes wide again.

"Don't do that," Merlin says, instead of the first thing that comes to mind, which is _do that again_. "I'm trying to concentrate."

Arthur just spreads his hands, as though to say, _I'm not stopping you_.

Merlin grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries again -- and again--

Arthur hisses, "_Merlin_, this is _not funny_," which Merlin _knows_, because he's not completely stupid after all, no matter what Arthur says. And anyway, he'd like to see _Arthur _try this and do any better--

Merlin falls over, hitting the floor with a bone-aching_ thump_.

"I did it," he mumbles to the floor, flailing an arm around to feel for feathers, just in case. He comes up with a handful of air, and sighs in relief: no wings. He really_ did_ do it.

"You certainly did _something_," Arthur says, his voice oddly strained.

Merlin squints up at him from the floor.

Arthur is framed on either side by a rather impressive pair of white wings.

On Arthur, wings look majestic, almost natural. They suit him.

Merlin scrambles to his feet, starting forward. Arthur moves back, keeping more than an arm's length of distance between them, poorly contained fury writ in every line of his body. The wings give him a strange, intimidating presence, making him seem to loom over Merlin; Merlin can't help but think that's a bit unfair, as he doubts he did any looming when their situations were reversed.

"Fix this. Now." Arthur shifts in place, visibly torn between the desire to throttle Merlin and the desire to stay well away from him. "_Merlin_."

"Yes, yes, all right." Merlin concentrates, imagining Arthur's wings -- Arthur's _wings_ \-- disappearing. He can do this. He_ will _do this -- he's fairly certain his destiny has nothing to do with watching the future king of all Albion sit the throne with feathers sprouting from his royal back, therefore, Merlin is _destined_ to fix this.

He speaks the words of the spell, confident as anything, and peers at Arthur to see if it worked.

Arthur just stares back, deeply unamused.

Merlin repeats the incantation until he's out of breath, until Arthur's fury has eased into scorn, until Arthur stalks toward him all flaring wings and looming presence and says, "you are the _worst_ wizard I have _ever met_, do you know that?"

There's an exceedingly sharp barb on the tip of Merlin's tongue, one to do with Arthur's father_ executing _most of the wizards Arthur has ever met -- but that thought just makes his pulse race and his throat dry up, so instead, he says, "Well, I can't think with you moving about!"

"Were I a statue, you'd have the same thinking problem!" Arthur stops, nonetheless. His gaze drops to Merlin's mouth, and he watches Merlin recite the spell twice more, a bit less energetically each time. "You could at least put some effort in."

Merlin wants to yank on Arthur's feathers, the way he sometimes yanked at the hair of the baker's daughter as a boy; it's a small, childish impulse, but he's out of more mature ideas for getting Arthur to be quiet.

He wants to pull at Arthur's feathers anyway, just to see how they feel.

He hesitates for so long that it catches Arthur's attention, makes Arthur say, exasperated: "What is it?"

"Nothing." His fingers itch with the urge to touch Arthur's wings, to affirm the very existence of them -- _wings_, things created by his_ mind_, things that have no place in this room or anywhere else. "Nothing, it's just--"

Arthur's voice lowers to match Merlin's warier tone, perhaps unconsciously so. "What?"

That's not permission, but something about this moment _is_ \-- something about them standing so close, about the implicit trust that shows, for all that Merlin has bespelled Arthur in a rather spectacular fashion. Somewhere in this moment is permission to touch, so Merlin does, lightly palming the surface of one impossible wing in a way he'd never dare touch the prince himself.

"What do you think you're doing?" Arthur's voice is unusually deep, and he's turning a bit in an effort to see, but he hasn't stepped back; he hasn't even knocked Merlin's hand away. Merlin pushes it a bit further, experimentally tugging on a feather larger than the length of his hand.

Arthur's wing twitches under Merlin's hand, and Arthur sucks in a breath -- and then Merlin_ is_ pushed away, out of reach.

"Just _fix it_," Arthur says, sounding a bit hoarse.

Merlin closes his eyes one more time. He thinks about the texture of the feathers, the give of them, the way the wings move, and adds those things to the picture in his head. Then he focuses on Arthur, whispering the spell as he carefully takes away all the non-Arthur bits of that picture: every feather, every last one.

There's a muffled _thunk_, as of a body hitting the floor.

"Fantastic," Arthur mutters, from somewhere below.

Merlin cracks open one eye, peering down. Arthur glares back at Merlin for a moment -- normal,_ brilliant_, wing-free Arthur -- and then pushes himself up, looming over Merlin again._ Looming_, and without wings besides; maybe the looming is just in Merlin's head, after all.

Arthur grabs Merlin by the shoulder and turns him around, rather forcefully patting down Merlin's back. Right. Well done. Maybe the wings have simply become _invisible_. Merlin only wishes he could be so clever.

The heavily sarcastic voice of his thoughts quiets a little when Arthur stretches a palm flat between Merlin's shoulders, resting his hand there. The sudden appearance of wings must have made quick work of Merlin's tunic; Arthur's hand is warm against his skin.

"You shouldn't do things like that." Arthur's voice is quiet, more resigned than angry. "You don't know -- you just _shouldn't_."

"You could order me not to," Merlin says, not entirely sure they're talking about his wayward magic.

Arthur huffs out a laugh that's nearly a sigh, and his hand moves slightly against Merlin's back, fingertips dragging across Merlin's skin.

Then Arthur shoves him forward, saying, "there's still the matter of that rat, and this time, use your _hands_, Merlin--"

And whatever that was is gone, and things are back to normal.

\---

Three days later, their passage through the forest disturbs a small flock of black-winged birds, driving them up from the tall grass and into the sky.

Arthur tilts his head back, tracking their flight. In a moment, the birds are no more than a scattering of shadow against the midday sun.

"Must be nice," Merlin says, openly wistful. "They can go anywhere."

All the muscles in Arthur's back tighten at once, and he rolls his shoulders, trying to force down the sense memories drifting to the fore.

"So can we," Arthur says, and claps a hand to Merlin's back to get him moving: down the path, shoulder to shoulder, the woods around them so quiet the world might have nothing in it beyond the ground beneath their feet and the curve of Merlin's smile.

He truly could. He could go anywhere like this, just the two of them, just as they are.


End file.
